


A Call For Help

by FictionPenned



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: His hands shake with the effort of fighting through the pain, and Cameron stands, gently bracing her own palm against his chest and stopping him short.“I can help.”House’s weary eyes meet hers. “You shouldn’t have to.”“I want to.”Written for Mistletoe Exchange 2020
Relationships: Allison Cameron/Greg House
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23
Collections: Mistletoe Exchange 2020





	A Call For Help

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HogwartsToAlexandria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/gifts).



Cameron was not the first person House called when he found himself short on Vicodin and drowning in his own pain, but she was the first person to actually pick up the phone. It takes a minute of stammering through his pain and fighting against his own pride to explain his current misfortune, and, thankfully, she agrees to come to his aide instead of passing judgment upon him.

The knock on his door does not come too long thereafter.

In his pain, House does not so much as consider leaving the sofa and opening the door for her. If he could walk, he would not have called her. Hell, if he could _crawl_ , he would not have called her. His pride has always overridden his desire to call for help. It is only when he is at his absolute lowest — when he is no longer capable of functioning on his own — that he is able to ask for assistance.

Fortunately, those situations are rare.

Unfortunately, this is one of them.

“It’s open,” he says after a momentary pause spent gathering up enough strength and breath to project his voice across the room and through the closed door.

The knob rattles in its setting. From her place in the hallway, he can hear Cameron call back, “It’s not.”

House groans, rolling his head back and staring up at the ceiling. Stars dance in the hazy edges of his vision, brought on by both the overwhelming onslaught of pain and the discomfort of withdrawal.

“Good thing you broke into houses for a living, isn’t it?” It is a remarkably poor attempt at impersonating his typical demeanor. In his current state, he simply does not have enough energy to be glib. He is be accustomed to a certain amount of pain, however, it is usually tempered and tamed by way of his copious Vicodin use. Without it, he can barely _think_ , nonetheless craft a decent joke.

Eventually, Cameron manages to get the door open.

“Are you okay?” She asks as she circles around to the front of the sofa. Almost immediately, she drops her bag on the floor and presses a cold hand against House’s sweat-soaked brow.

“Do I look okay?”

It is a rhetorical question, but Cameron answers it anyway.

“No.”

House nods once, eyes flicking towards the bag on the floor. “Did you bring Vicodin?”

A frown creases the lines on Cameron’s face, and House’s hope — faint though it was — flickers and dies. He knew that he should’ve called someone with a slightly more questionable position on ethics, morality, and prescription pad abuse.

A careful exhale trickles through Cameron’s parted lips as she kneels beside House, tilting her head and pushing her hair out of her face. “I thought you had another stash.” There’s a brief pause as her eyes meet his, her gaze torn between overwhelming compassion and a stubborn willingness to stand her ground. “…Or several.”

“About that,“ House says, crossing an arm over his chest and turning away from her as much as his pain and stiffness allows, “Wilson cleaned house a couple days ago. Part of a big joke, apparently.”

“Why didn’t you call him?”

“I did. He didn’t pick up.”

Cameron breathes out a heavy sigh, wiping her sweaty palms against her thighs and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she considers all of the options available to them. After a long, thoughtful moment, she inclines her head towards his leg. “Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

House stiffens. As a general rule, he doesn’t allow his friends and colleagues to look at his leg. He simply isn’t interested in engaging with that kind of vulnerability, nor does he want to elicit pity from those who are inclined to look at him as a charity case. “I fail to see what good that would do. It’s a little late to put the muscle back where it came from.”

Cameron, however, is not dissuaded. “Do you stretch it?”

“I have wild sex every time I receive a paycheck, does that count?”

“I’m not counting back massages from hookers. I know your physical therapist gave you exercises. Do you still do them?”

Cameron’s tone is kind, but firm. It is her patient voice, not her colleague voice, and House is unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of it. All he can do is blink once, temporarily dumbed into stunned silence. It is only after her manages to untie and detangle his tongue before he replies, “No.”

“There you go then. Atrophy in the surrounding muscles is going to worsen your pain.”

“I think it’s the lack of Vicodin that’s worsening my pain.”

“Are you a doctor or a child?” Cameron chastises him with a tilt of her head and a disapproving _tsk_ of her tongue against the back of her teeth.

Though House does not bother with a witty retort, his silence is apparently answer enough, and Cameron plows onward. “Do you want to take your own pants off, or should I?”

House’s tongue works at the point of a single canine as he exhales slowly. He remembers the days when Cameron would have been eager to find any excuse to get in his pants, but he is well-aware that she has probably left those days behind her. Besides, no one wants to jump on a sweat-soaked, pain-wracked man who can’t even manage to leave his own sofa. This is neither his finest nor his sexiest moment.

With a great huff of effort, he eases himself into a seated position and begins to gingerly guide his sweatpants in the general direction of his angles. “Warning: I’m not responsible for any creatures that might be living under here.”

Despite the relative seriousness of the situation, Cameron smiles. “I work in the ER. I’ve _definitely_ seen worse.”

House winces as he bends his knee. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

His hands shake with the effort of fighting through the pain, and Cameron stands, gently bracing her own palm against his chest and stopping him short.

“I can help.”

House’s weary eyes meet hers. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I want to.”

As much as he would be loathe to admit it, House feels a flutter of relief beating against the inside of his breastbone. He doesn’t want to rely on the help and kindness of others, but he trusts Cameron implicitly. She is a good doctor, and, most infuriatingly, she is a good person, too.

He settles back against the cushions as Cameron takes control. He tries not to focus on her touch — on her assuredness — as she deftly navigates and manipulates his body, moving his legs — both the good one and the bad one — in a manner that both minimizes his pain and frees him from his sweatpants.

“Thank you,” House says, turning his eyes back towards the ceiling to disguise his own embarrassment.

“You’re not going to thank me in a minute.”

Per usual, Cameron is right.

House hisses through his teeth as she gently guides his bad leg through the series of stretches that he has been so doggedly avoiding, testing the limits of his greatly reduced mobility. He mutters curses under his breath and berates her decision to do this while he is robbed of his primary pain management aids.

Cameron merely responds with a curt, “I’m sorry,” that is at once both entirely genuine and brusquely dismissive.

It is only when Cameron is done that she bends down, slides open the zipper on her bad, and presses a bottle of pills into House’s open hand, closing his fingers around it with a gentle squeeze.

Still breathless and open-mouthed, House looks between Cameron and the bottle of Vicodin.He would expect this kind of deception from Chase or Foreman, but he is shocked to see it from Cameron. It looks like she might have learned a bit more from him than how to break into an apartment, and in his own way, he is begrudgingly proud of her.

The corner of his mouth quirks up ways as he dumps two pills into his opposite palm and dry swallows them. His throat rises and falls as he falls back against the couch cushions, and he catches her fixating on the motion.

“You just wanted to get my clothes off. I know your tricks, Cameron.”

Cameron’s face, too, softens into a smile. “I wasn’t aware that you made people work this hard to get your pants off.”

“I like to play hard to get.”

The pain begins to fade away. He breathes a bit easier, feels a bit better, and he has to admit, if only to himself, that the stretches _did_ help. His remaining muscles feel a bit looser, and some of the pressure has been taken off of the pain points. He makes small, careful circles with his ankle as he tests it.

Cameron hovers awkwardly beside the sofa, glancing between House and the front door. “I should go. I’m sure you want some privacy.”

Before she has a chance to move, however, House reaches out to her, twining his fingers with hers and locking her gaze with his own. “You’re welcome to stay.” There’s a pause, a breath, a flick of the tongue over dry lips. “If you want.”

Cameron lifts a single eyebrow, and House clears his throat before clarifying. “I’d like you to stay. Not as a doctor, but as a friend…or something else, if you’re interested.”

There is a lengthy silence, belied only by their racing pulses, the slight nervous tremor of Cameron’s hand in his, and the intimate intensity of their locked gazes.

In a way, they have both been waiting for this moment for years, but now that they stand perched upon its precipice and the fall is immediate, it seems almost entirely unbelievable.

It is Cameron who breaks first, taking a step closer and kneeling to bring herself down to House’s level. Nervous fingers brush against the edges of his face as she turns it towards her and guides her lips to his.

“Knew it. You’ve always had a type,” House comments wryly when they finally surface again to catch their breath.

Cameron merely murmurs a quietly disapproving, “Shut up, House,” against his cheek before silencing him with another desperate, fervent, fierce kiss.

Neither of them know what this will look like when night passes and morning seeps through the curtains, but in the meantime, they plan to make the most of it.


End file.
